right path.’
I’m feeling sick. I can’t look at him. I don’t understand. He’s in God’s army now. The executioner in the snow, gun raised to his shoulder, that’s in the past. My thoughts tremble around the image of him in the mirror, his action revealing something I can’t let myself grasp. It slides away, nothing but a reflection, a shadow moving over glass.
My feet are on the stairs, stumbling away. Mum waits below to walk me to the coach stand, neat in her coat with her handbag slung over the crook of her elbow. She smiles. ‘All right, love? This is a big day. I’m so proud of you.’
The front door swings open, letting in daylight, the sound of traffic.
ELIZA – KLAUDIA
1995, London
It takes me ages to negotiate the train and Tube, lugging my over-stuffed and battered suitcase. I slump onto a seat on the heated, crowded bus, the final leg of my journey, and gaze out of the window at familiar grey London streets. There are baubles hanging in shop windows, and decorations glow from lampposts: angels blowing trumpets and fat men on sledges picked out in lights. Pavements are thick with people wrapped up against the cold, their arms full of presents.
At home the fake tree will be blinking in the corner, the yellowed cards hanging over the mantelpiece, smells of mincemeat and goose fat coming from the kitchen.
Paris was colder than London. The first flakes of snow had been falling as Meg waved me goodbye at Charles de Gaulle. I’d been worried that the flight might have been cancelled. But I’m arriving exactly when I said I would. I’ve got presents in my case: a bottle of perfume with a heart-shaped glass stopper: Mitsouko by Guerlain; I recognised the bottle in Galeries Lafayette, and thought it was about time Mum had a replacement. I can’t wait to see her face when she opens it. But first I’ll drop my bag on the floor and pull her to me for a hug. And I’ll remember how she only comes up to my shoulder, and how she smells of talc, and the mints she carries in her handbag to suck when she thinks she should resist another biscuit.
As the bus turns off the main road, past the Methodist Chapel, a sense of dread trickles inside me. Each street triggers another memory: the teenage humiliation of being seen going to chapel with my parents, dragging my feet in sensible polished shoes, as I hunch past the group of kids on that same corner: Amber and Lesley sneering with shiny mouths, teetering in heels, their laughter following me. There were no parties for me; no make-up; no boyfriends. My father’s hands tightened on my shoulders when I sat below him stuttering over the Bible text he’d set me to learn. I don’t want to see him. It’s only the thought of Mum, wiping her hands on her apron, coming forwards to pat my cheek that makes me impatient to get there. None of this is fair on her. I miss her. I can almost feel her fingers, dusty with flour, against my skin.
Our house is a dirty white, pebble-dashed semi. It sits in the middle of the row. There is a mean strip of front garden where rubbish collects – crisp packets, empty coke cans – and a low concrete wall where, to my father’s fury, teenagers sometimes perch. A stubby tongue of crazy paving leads to the half-glazed front door.
I ring the bell. I don’t know why. I have my key. My father opens the door and I understand at once that something is wrong even though his expression barely changes when he looks at me.
‘Klaudia.’
‘Where’s Mum?’
The words are sawdust in my mouth. A boomerang of blood ricochets against my ribs. The open doorway sways and my father reaches out a hand. He’s speaking but my brain is rejecting the words. No. I think I say it aloud. ‘No.’
I’m sitting in the living room on the velveteen sofa. My head droops between my knees. The carpet spins under my feet. I look up and realise that he’s in his best dark suit and the room is empty and bleak. There are no shiny baubles, no ribbons of
I’m feeling sick. I can’t look at him. I don’t understand. He’s in God’s army now. The executioner in the snow, gun raised to his shoulder, that’s in the past. My thoughts tremble around the image of him in the mirror, his action revealing something I can’t let myself grasp. It slides away, nothing but a reflection, a shadow moving over glass.
My feet are on the stairs, stumbling away. Mum waits below to walk me to the coach stand, neat in her coat with her handbag slung over the crook of her elbow. She smiles. ‘All right, love? This is a big day. I’m so proud of you.’
The front door swings open, letting in daylight, the sound of traffic.
ELIZA – KLAUDIA
1995, London
It takes me ages to negotiate the train and Tube, lugging my over-stuffed and battered suitcase. I slump onto a seat on the heated, crowded bus, the final leg of my journey, and gaze out of the window at familiar grey London streets. There are baubles hanging in shop windows, and decorations glow from lampposts: angels blowing trumpets and fat men on sledges picked out in lights. Pavements are thick with people wrapped up against the cold, their arms full of presents.
At home the fake tree will be blinking in the corner, the yellowed cards hanging over the mantelpiece, smells of mincemeat and goose fat coming from the kitchen.
Paris was colder than London. The first flakes of snow had been falling as Meg waved me goodbye at Charles de Gaulle. I’d been worried that the flight might have been cancelled. But I’m arriving exactly when I said I would. I’ve got presents in my case: a bottle of perfume with a heart-shaped glass stopper: Mitsouko by Guerlain; I recognised the bottle in Galeries Lafayette, and thought it was about time Mum had a replacement. I can’t wait to see her face when she opens it. But first I’ll drop my bag on the floor and pull her to me for a hug. And I’ll remember how she only comes up to my shoulder, and how she smells of talc, and the mints she carries in her handbag to suck when she thinks she should resist another biscuit.
As the bus turns off the main road, past the Methodist Chapel, a sense of dread trickles inside me. Each street triggers another memory: the teenage humiliation of being seen going to chapel with my parents, dragging my feet in sensible polished shoes, as I hunch past the group of kids on that same corner: Amber and Lesley sneering with shiny mouths, teetering in heels, their laughter following me. There were no parties for me; no make-up; no boyfriends. My father’s hands tightened on my shoulders when I sat below him stuttering over the Bible text he’d set me to learn. I don’t want to see him. It’s only the thought of Mum, wiping her hands on her apron, coming forwards to pat my cheek that makes me impatient to get there. None of this is fair on her. I miss her. I can almost feel her fingers, dusty with flour, against my skin.
Our house is a dirty white, pebble-dashed semi. It sits in the middle of the row. There is a mean strip of front garden where rubbish collects – crisp packets, empty coke cans – and a low concrete wall where, to my father’s fury, teenagers sometimes perch. A stubby tongue of crazy paving leads to the half-glazed front door.
I ring the bell. I don’t know why. I have my key. My father opens the door and I understand at once that something is wrong even though his expression barely changes when he looks at me.
‘Klaudia.’
‘Where’s Mum?’
The words are sawdust in my mouth. A boomerang of blood ricochets against my ribs. The open doorway sways and my father reaches out a hand. He’s speaking but my brain is rejecting the words. No. I think I say it aloud. ‘No.’
I’m sitting in the living room on the velveteen sofa. My head droops between my knees. The carpet spins under my feet. I look up and realise that he’s in his best dark suit and the room is empty and bleak. There are no shiny baubles, no ribbons of
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